


Lunatic Palette Swapping

by sarssol



Category: Original Work
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Cowgirl Position, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Impregnation, Knotting, Nuns, Pheromones, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarssol/pseuds/sarssol
Kudos: 44





	Lunatic Palette Swapping

For many reasons did Arienne du Pont pray. Dark was the night and many the threats that loomed over the small village of Boisépais. From the howling of the wolves that occupied the densely forested region to the reports of raids passed on by traveling merchants, it seemed as if tough times were coming for all.

Yet little did that show in Arienne’s demeanor as she knelt before the altar of her little church, beautiful face placid as the grace of God. Only a few stray locks of her golden hair dangled free of her coif, little noticed by the down-turned blue eyes of the nun in her devotion. Her habit fit snugly across her body, for formless though the garment might have been, Sister Arienne was shapely enough to make up for its lack.

Perhaps it was unseemly for a woman of God to present such a tempting figure. Of course, it mattered not how men desired her figure, for there was only one master to whom she had sworn herself. For as long as she had been priestess of the little church that watched over the village, never once had contemplation come to breaking those vows. It would certainly take more than some mere man to convince her otherwise.

On that night, Sister Arienne had her prayers interrupted. A stranger’s arrival at the church not so long after the fall of darkness, after the sound of the church’s bell had long since announced the passing of the sun’s safety. It wasn’t, in itself, such an unusual occurrence. Though Boisépais was small, it saw its fair share of traders passing through, and all knew the church to be a safe source of lodging for a night—at the cost of a lecture on the wonders of God, of course.

The stranger who strode in through the doors was no itinerant merchant, however. Though their bulky form was concealed largely by a great furred cloak—and a well justified one, by the cold breeze that followed them in and whipped at the candles—they carried no pack nor any indication of horses or mules.

Sister Arienne stood from her kneeling posture with some haste as the mysterious stranger strode closer through the pews. The gentle thump of the church’s great door shutting was the sound that broke the silence between them, the nun ensuring her smile showed no sign of any unease. Only the distant howling, muffled by the sturdy stone walls, made her certain that safety was found within.

“Fair tidings, stranger,” she said, curtsying even as looked the wanderer over. Though their hooded cloak did much to disguise their figure, nothing could hide their sheer size. Though Arienne was hardly the most petite, this stranger stood head and shoulders above her with a stride that ate up the distance through the small church. Their shoulders too were fit to wrestle an ox, strapping and undoubtedly burly. “I am Sister Arienne du Pont, and I welcome you to our church of Boisépais, so long as you come in peace.”

“Well ent that nice,” the stranger replied from beneath their hood, voice thick with a foreign accent. That drew up Arienne’s hackles more than anything, to hear a tongue she could not promptly place. That there was an undoubtedly feminine tone to it only provided mild comfort.

“I trust that you carry no weapon?”

That received a bark of laughter, as if the nun’s question—and obvious suspicion—were a mere joke.The stranger did not respond immediately but instead pulled down the hood of her cloak. Arienne’s gasp of shock was not at the stranger’s handsome beauty, at her hair so blonde it was nearly ash, nor even at the deep scar that traced a crevasse down one side of the foreigner’s face.

No, what drew the nun’s horror was the blue tattoos that marked her a northerner. A raider, a pillager, a viking. The northerner’s grin was practically feral as Arienne backpedaled away.

“Haven’t got a single blade on me, nay,” she said easily, shucking her cloak entirely even as she strode closer with lazy steps. A loosely laced leather vest and similar shorts were all that concealed her pale skin under the light of the church’s candles, the blue tracings of her tattoos intermingling with varied scars on the corded muscle of her frame. “Never much found need for one.”

“I don’t know who you are or how you got here,” Arienne began, heart fighting as if trying to break free of her chest. Even on the outskirts of town, the watchmen should have been able to ring the alarm bell before any sort of raiding party took them down. If this viking was merely one lone invader, the nun might yet have been able to escape the situation with her life intact. “But I shall warn you to leave peaceably while you still can.”

“Oh? That’s quite a bark for a lady of the cloth so obviously lacking in bite,” the wild viking replied without even the faintest hint of hesitation at Sister Arienne’s words. “I had heard that the sister of this church was easy on the eyes, but who knew she’d be such a wildfire. Jus’ what I’d like in a bride.”

The nun gulped as she felt the curve of her rear meet the altar, realizing the viking’s true intentions. She made a show of her nervousness even as the stranger continued to saunter forward carelessly. It was only long practice that had her hold back the urge to smile and reveal how justified her faith was--for all that adrenaline kept her heart beating painfully hard. She needed only to wait until the viking was within reach…

“Ah, but I’ve been so rude. Th’name’s Helga Torsdottir, besmircher o'the white shores, and o'course… Silver Werewolf o’ the accursed moon.” Before Arienne could do so much as gasp in shock, the northerner had begun to change. Her already large frame grew larger still, the reason for her scanty garment quickly becoming obvious as the laces of the best were stretched tighter still by the newfound bulk beneath them. Her hair, already a platinum blonde, struck itself of the little color remaining until it gleamed as if true silver. The change was obvious thanks to how grew, first down her back and then spreading further to coat Helga’s body in a shaggy layer of fur.

It wasn’t nearly long enough to conceal the sickening distortions of her frame, however. The crackling of bones ripped through the church as her legs bent backwards in between steps. The inhuman viking didn’t even break stride as her knees inverted, shoes bursting into scraps of leather even as her feet changed into long-clawed paws. Her hands were much the same, that platinum fur coating them even as claws grew out to menace.

And still Helga strode along as if merely showing off for her prey. Her grin was appropriately wolfish for the near snout her face had become, fur coated and yet not all the way there. It was almost halfway, Arienne realized, as if the face had combined man and wolf as equally as the rest of the body.

Or woman, rather, as the transformation certainly hadn’t diminished Helga’s feminine aspect in the least. Rather her chest now threatened to escape the vest thanks to the bountiful size boost, and the viking’s hips were more obvious than ever--though accentuated by the slow swing of a polished silver tail behind.

A werewolf. And a magnificent specimen of one, towering well over seven feet, a difference in height only emphasized as Arienne fell to her knees in shock. Already, the monster’s bestial stench was suffusing the small chapel, an almost intoxicating musk that carried threat just as much as promise.

“Hope ye don’t mind the smell o’ dog,” the werewolf spoke with a smile that showed off far too many sharp teeth. “Cus yer about t’tie the knot with one.”

It was simply too much, Sister Arienne unable to restrain a low chuckle of disbelief. For the first time Helga paused in her stride, confusion evident even on the twisted visage of her snout. She only grew more befuddled as the sister’s laughter grew almost hysterical, echoing around the stone walls of the church. Had she truly been so intimidating that the nun snapped so easily?

“So long I have lived in this little town,” Arienne said breathlessly, voice bearing an uncanny lack of sanity. “Biding my patience that I might live in peace. Tolerating the rural locale that afforded only a spare meal a month for the grace of the wolves in these dark woods. Only to have a blasphemous beast such as you so brazenly show up on my doorstep to demand my hand without even a clue?”

“Wh- You listen here,” Helga began, hackles raising in a low growl as she took a threatening step forward—to no effect, with the curvaceous blonde nun merely letting out another bark of laughter.

“Oh Helga Torsdottir, Accursed werewolf of the silver moon,” Arienne spoke, reciting the viking’s title as if it were the laughable prattle of a child’s bragging. She stood once more, posing before the altar of the small church as if she were merely presenting for a Sunday mass with a beatific smile on her face that showed no sign of fear. It was this daring that stayed the werewolf’s claw, even as the nun let out an amused sigh.

“What I am about to do to you would not be approved by the Vatican.”

Helga didn’t have a chance to make audible her confusion. Nevertheless an answer was forthcoming with the harsh sound of tearing fabric. A nun’s habit was not designed to stretch, after all, and certainly not one which already strained to contain its inhabitants’ curves.

Even the relatively slight growth that Arienne went through as she began to transform was enough to shred the black cloth concealing her body, exposing her pale skin for only moments before golden fur spread to cover it. For all the same twists and changes that Helga had gone through, the nun was done shifting in mere seconds, not dragging it out for an audience.

Rather, Helga was still staring in shock with her jaw hanging open when Arienne leapt forward on newly digitigrade legs. Taken by such surprise, the silver werewolf’s greater mass accomplished little but a louder crash when she was slammed to the floor. A lesser beast might have suffered broken bones or bruises at the very least, but let not the regenerative aspect of lycanthropy be overlooked.

Instead Helga was merely rattled and pinned, staring up at the golden werewolf mounting her. Arienne wasn't nearly as large as the viking even after her transformations, but the claws gripping her shoulder felt practically immutable in their strength.

"So arrogant, to swan about thinking yourself a true alpha of wolves," the golden werewolf cooed with the faintest hint of a growl to her voice. It raised Helga's hackles to hear herself spoken to so condescendingly.

Superior strength was no competitor for prodigious size when it came to leverage. That was the only thing that allowed Helga's blow to launch Arienne back, the smaller werewolf lacking the weight to resist. Her claws drew blood as they were dragged through the silver wolf's flesh, though the shallow wounds healed quickly.

Arienne was already recovered by the time Helga rolled backwards onto all fours. The mismatched werewolves stared off for one moment. One silver and bloodied, only barely dressed, the other golden and immaculate with little but the tattered remains of a habit clinging around her shapely form.

They recognized the promise of violence in each other's eyes, and the mutual lust of pheromones in the wild scent that filled the church. It was the law of feral beasts, the lunar madness that they had given into, and launched at each other once more.

Helga was undeniably the more skilled. Even discounting the years of raiding that made her a skilled combatant, the silver werewolf had spent far more time learning the full limits of her cursed form. That was why, blow by blow, she was so aghast to be losing.

Arienne was unskilled, and obviously unaccustomed to combat in her hybrid form, but it hardly mattered. The golden werewolf had speed like the shimmering light her fur appeared to be, and strength that rattled Helga's bones with each strike. Moreover she had an instinctive madness the depths of like Helga had never seen, spurring Arienne to ignore blows that healed in moments even as she lashed out wildly.

For all that she attempted to give as good as she got, Arriene's relentless lunacy saw Helga tossed to her back once more. Her silver fur was dyed red by the blood of wounds that had already healed and her clothes as good as scrap, but the viking wasn't ready to give up. That is, until Arienne's rear came down upon her face, ringing Helga's skull against the stone floor like a bell.

Her vision swam and her body went limp, the concussion enough to give even a werewolf pause. The golden werewolf mounting her face seemed to take this as her opportunity, clawing at and tearing away the tattered remains of Helga's shorts.

"You filthy, rotten sinner, prowling about with your naught musk getting everywhere," the transformed nun growled, a twisted note of approval in her voice. Helga didn't need that to indicate that Arienne was aroused, however. Her muzzle was as good as buried in the golden werewolf's snatch, after all, absolutely assaulting her lungs with the ripe scent of a bitch in heat with each breath.

Not that the viking could do much about it. Each time she tried to move, to free herself from Arienne's thighs, the nun simply raised her hips and dropped sharply once more, sending Helga back into the nauseating experience of a concussion. It only took a couple attempts before Helga gave up. As humiliating as it was to be pinned down and fondled, there wasn't anything she could do about it without getting her skull cracked open.

Naturally the nun atop her accepted the viking's surrender in good form. Which is to say, she let out a long moan that almost neared a howl as a long, dexterous tongue began lapping at her lupine pussy. No human tongue could ever compare, and Arienne's privates quickly rewarded the submissive licking with a redoubled flow of quim that practically flooded Helga with the golden werewolf's pheromones.

Not that she herself was consciously aware of more than the sudden pleasure of a wolf tongue pressing itself deep into her folds. What little remained of Arienne's human awareness was rather preoccupied by the beastly implement adorning the viking's crotch, suffusing the air with its own animal musk.

It was a scent that drove the werewolf mad, awoke all the breeding instincts that she thought absent but were quickly proven to be merely dormant. Waiting for an alpha's rod like the one her paw was wrapped around, squeezing a slimy fluid from the tip that practically called to the golden nun.

"Filthy," she repeated almost to herself, tongue lolling out to sample at the narrow head that was so very fascinating. "Naughty filthy…"

There was a muffled vibration that assaulted Arienne's crotch when her mouth first engulfed Helga's rod. An attempt by the vicious viking to swear stymied by the holy relic occupying her mouth, perhaps? It wasn't something that the nun could find herself too concerned with, bliss filling her mind as meat filled her maw. As could only be expected of a raider, the rod tasted of savage sweat and beastly fluid, and it was nigh on the tastiest thing Arienne could imagine.

For all that the fight had ended, the werewolves behaved no more civilized in their rut. Human decency was forgotten as each sought their ecstasy, filling the small church with the whining of horny monsters and the overpowering stench of their coupling. The wet slurping of the formerly chaste nun was accompanied at length by the equally enthusiastic lapping of the viking at her slit.

Distant in their homes, the lowly inhabitants of the village awoke with discomfort when the piercing howl of a wolf broke the quiet vigil of the moon. So close it sounded that more than a few thought to check upon livestock, but none felt any concern for the small church upon the hill.

It was safe, after all. The walls were sturdy stone and the doors thick. And little did they know that the beast was well within, recovering from the first orgasm of her life, upon another's face.

Helga was not quite so fortunate. For all that her enhanced cunnilingus had driven Arienne beyond the limits of her control, so too had it distracted from her duties. Even as the nun's bosom heaved and she struggled to fill her lungs with air, Helga's spit-shined shaft stood angry and red above her crotch, suddenly deprived of attention.

It was a situation that would not stand. The silver werewolf’s red rocket was standing proud, soaked in the slippery mixture formed from Arienne’s oral worship and Helga’s gushing arousal. It appeared nearly a demonic tool in the flickering light of the church’s candles, pulsing an angry red from its stimulation cut short, and no better a tool to split a nun in twain.

“Such a disgusting heretic,” Arienne said, near breathless as she sat heavily upon the viking’s snout. The pheromone laden air had long such stricken reason from the nun’s mind, for all that her behavior retained some trappings of the holy woman she pretended to be. All the golden werewolf truly felt was an overwhelming need to feel that rod plunge into her depths—and in an instant had moved as if to allow it, straddling the silver werewolf’s hips. She halted there, as if some remaining bastion of reason compelled her to allow no more than the narrow tip to tease at her sacred reliquary. “You sinful marauder, attempting such—”

Half suffocated by the fuzzy rump which had occupied her face, Helga’s awareness took a moment to recover as it was removed. Her instincts, however, were in peak form at the slightest sensation of a very different set of lips just hardly spreading around the tip of her beastly rod. It was with the full strength of a werewolf that Helga’s hips thrust into the air, practically an unstoppable force.

The viking’s spear of destiny pierced straight to the depths of the nun’s belly, effortlessly penetrating an absolute territory which had never before been conquered. Arienne’s words were interrupted by an unholy squeal even as the strength was struck from her legs and a blood of stigmata stained Helga’s silver-furred crotch just the slightest more. When the viking’s hips fell, the nun fell with them.

“Y’talk too much,” Helga managed to say with a tired smirk, the fur across her face matted by the nun’s fluid of ecstasy. She didn’t allow her previous humiliation to stop her from seizing at the childbearing swell of Arienne’s golden hips, retaking control. Without restraint it was a trivial feat to manhandle the nun into place for another stab at her depths.

The pleasure was almost excruciating, drawing a breathless gasp from each. It was a wholly new experience to the nun, for all that her instincts cried out its rightness. Even Helga, once again the more experienced of the duo, found herself in awe at the strength of the golden werewolf’s body. For all that Arienne was virtually paralyzed by paroxysms of pleasure, her privates weren’t impeded in their attempts to seize at the intruder in their depths.

If not for the plentiful holy water that anointed her staff, Helga near feared that the nun might well succeed in tearing it off. With the lubrication in place and more gushing out with each stroke, it merely ascended the experience to a rapturous pleasure. Never before had the viking encountered one who so easily took the full length of her beastly implement—and so enthusiastically.

Helga could only thrust up into the nun for a short time before she found her motions met by an opposite and greater force. The golden werewolf, finding some measure of motor control once more, slammed her full weight down to meet the viking with such force that the clap echoed through the church. The great motion set her impressive chest into motion in a monumental way, providing a feast for Helga’s eyes even as she found herself ridden into the ground.

It was a calamitous coupling, every inch of the church’s small nave filled by the sound and scent of their pairing. The viking’s blasphemous tongue was overcome by great bellows of pleasure and incoherent imprecations, even as the nun bouncing atop her moaned out prayers that fell upon deaf ears. There were no deities present to watch, merely two carnal beasts working their way rapidly towards an impending climax.

There before the sanctuary of the chapel of Boisépais did the two find themselves inexorably wed, stuck together in their consummation. No bells clanged merrily in the dark of the night, but twin howling still announced the unison to the village at length. None of the many who awoke to the duet dared to consider a late night examination of their livestock. The loss of cattle could not compare to the value of their lives.

Back in the church, the tied werewolves finally knew peace. Bound in matrimony—a knot well tied—Arienne’s pheromone driven lust had been wholly quenched, the haze of arousal cleared from her mind. Helga too enjoyed the clarity that followed a climactic release, having received exactly what she came for in the first place, if not at all in the manner she expected.

Getting beaten like a rented mule and ridden into the ground was hardly on the itinerary. And yet, stuck by the crotch to a cream-filled nun, the viking could hardly complain about the results.

Arienne could, but her gracious behavior once freed from her instinctive heat—if not Helga’s lap—saw those complaints as rather meager to a werewolf’s regeneration. Still, the deed was done and the seeds were sown. Given exactly how vigorously the golden werewolf had dominated the silver, even the religious woman was not so hypocritical as to deny responsibility.

And, with the sister's might to ensure it, Helga herself would be taking that same responsibility.

* * *

Ever a radiant picture of the exemplary nun, the beautiful Sister Arienne du Pont was essentially above reproach by the villagers. When her church found itself the host of a great silver wolf, as tame as any dog, it was merely heralded by all as a sign of the grace of God. A saintly act, they claimed on her behalf, that a beast of the wilds was brought to heel by the heavenly aura of her faith.

It was the only justification any of them could believe, so much more palatable than the untold story of their meeting. Even those few who suspected her to be less than a paragon of chastity and faith could hardly have imagined the truth. And when the holy woman’s unseemly habit began to show evidence of an altogether new curve, the rumors that flew were no closer to the truth.

Whether they spoke of the wandering affection of an authoritative Father forcing himself upon her, the unseemly seduction of a married man in the midst of a crisis of faith, or even an envoy from heaven impressing upon Arienne the duties of carrying an immaculate conception, not a single person seemed to consider the affection of her faithful silver hound. So tamed and obedient it was nearly possible to forget that it was a wolf larger than most men, even as it fussed about Sister Arienne as if a worried husband.

And when the child came out hale and hearty, with a head full of platinum blonde hair and lungs that near shattered the midwife’s ears, none thought it odd how gleefully the wolf howled along.


End file.
